


I Seek and I Find In You

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Arthur Ketch Being an Asshole, Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Castiel Whump, Hurt Castiel, M/M, Minor S12 Spoilers, Protective Winchesters (Supernatural), Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 06:08:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13183974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: When the British Men of Letters take Castiel, the Winchesters are forced to work for Arthur Ketch to maintain their friend's safety. If they even stay true to their word.And Dean has to unleash some parts of himself he'd rather leave back in Hell where it belongs.





	I Seek and I Find In You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cenotaphy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cenotaphy/gifts).



> Happy Holidays everyone! 
> 
> So, I got my prompt for this exchange, and it turned out to be almost exactly the prompt I had asked for! So it goes lol. Cenotaphy, I hope you enjoy <3
> 
> TW: So, there is some torture fic. It's not *very* graphic, but I've tagged it for safety. Bear in mind while you're reading as ymmv

           I SEEK AND I FIND IN YOU

 

 

                The Impala rolled to a stop and Dean put it into park, keeping the headlights on. The engine idled loudly. He could see the motorcycle resting against a nearby tree. Ketch was braced against the tree, smoking a cigarette, and grinning. Dean bit his lip.

               “Wait here,” he said, reaching for the door.

               “No,” Cas snapped, glaring at him.

               “This won’t take long,” Dean said.

               “I’m not letting you talk to him alone.”

               Dean rolled his eyes, but gave up the fight. It was a futile effort to get Cas to do anything he didn’t want to.

               Dean got out of the car, Cas following behind him. Ketch dropped his cigarette and crushed it down with his boot.

               “Good to see you, Dean,” Ketch said. He kept grinning. It made goosebumps rise on Dean’s skin. Ketch’s eyes slide over to Cas. “Halo.”

               “What the hell was so important you couldn’t tell me over the phone?” Dean spat. It was cold out. Dean could see his breath in front of his face, curling upwards as he spoke. He crossed his arms over his chest.

               “You Americans. Always so rude.”

               “What do you want?” Cas asked.

               Ketch’s lips twitched just slightly. His eyes moved back to Dean. “We’ve been more than helpful to your cause, Dean.”

               Dean snorted.

               Ignoring him, Ketch continued, “We have sparred you our best technologies. We helped you put Lucifer back in the Cage. We helped your angel find you in the Colorado woods. We only request that you return the favors.”

               Dean scoffed. “In case you haven’t noticed, buddy, Sam and I don’t got the kind of tech you guys do. Besides, I thought that you were so much better than us ‘Americans’. What do you need our help for? Is Sam not enough anymore? He’s already doing a hunt with your little Harry Potter stereotype.”

               “You American hunters—your tactics are rather base, but you do manage to get the job done. And, I must admit, there is one advantage you have that we ourselves lack, that will be beneficial to a hunt of ours.”

               “And that is?”

               Ketch’s eyes slide back over to Cas. Dean’s blood turned to ice in his veins.

               “No way.”

               “It will only be for one hunt. Our research seems to indicate that the monster is a ghoul—a rather nasty one at that. But it should be no issue for your halo to take it out—even in the condition its presently in.”

               “Fuck off. Cas, get in the car.”

               “And leave you with him?”

               “Damn it, Cas, don’t argue with me on this!”

               Ketch scoffed.

               “Look, it’s not happening,” Dean said. He could feel his face flushing, feel his heartbeat in his temple. He shouldn’t have come here. Should have told Ketch to shove off as soon as he got that call. "You might have Sam wrapped around your finger, but I don’t buy a word that’s coming out of your mouth. You’ll just have to deal with the hunt on your own.”

               “We’ve done more than our share to aid you and your family, Dean.”

               “And?”

               Ketch sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Halo, surely you understand the gravity of the situation?”

               “My name is Castiel.”

               “Yes, yes.” Ketch rolled his eyes. “Now, if you don’t come, this ghoul will kill others. Are you telling me you’re amenable to that?”

               “Well, if you guys can’t handle a frickin’ ghoul, you’re not as tough as you pretend to be. He’s not going with you. Have a nice day.” Dean reached over and grabbed Cas by the sleeve of his coat. Ketch sighed dramatically.

               “I thought you would say that. Well, we’ll just have to do this the hard way then.”

               It was then that Dean noticed the blood dripping from Ketch’s hand. Everything went in slow motion from there. Dean screamed—Ketch slapped his hand against the backside of the tree—and there was a bright flash of light. It lasted for only a few seconds, and then Cas was gone, an empty space where he had been standing.

               Dean rushed towards Ketch, hand curled into a fist. Ketch caught it midair, kneed Dean in the groin. Dean fell to his knees, air escaping his lungs in agony. Ketch tightened his grip on Dean’s hand, threatening to crush the bones underneath the skin.

               “You asshole,” Dean wheezed. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

               “Why, then you’ll never find your angel.”

               “Fuck you. I’ll find him. I’ll track him down.”

               Ketch smiled.

               “It’s not a simple banishing sigil, as you think.” He pulled Dean forward just enough so that Dean could see the sigil. He was right. Dean didn’t recognize the sigil at all, but it definitely wasn’t the one he had drawn over and over until he could do it with his eyes closed.

               “Our scholars have worked with Enochian magic. It’s difficult to learn, but once you have, it’s surprisingly easy to manipulate. Now, the standard banishing sigil usually blasts the little buggers to some random spot on the planet. This, though.” He tapped the sigil. “With this, we can control where they go.”

               Dean’s mouth dried. His hand was throbbing in Ketch’s grip.

               “So, this is how things are going to work. Sam and Mick are still working that shifter case is Missoula. You and me, then, are going to go after this ghoul. If you behave, then we’ll return the angel to you.”

               Dean gritted his teeth. “Thought you needed him for the case.”

               Ketch snorted. “The halo may have made the case easier, but it’s not required for me to finish it.”

               “And I am?”

               “Backup,” Ketch said simply. “And Dean. I think you’ll find it’s in the angel’s best interests you do as I say, when I say it. Our scientists have been very eager to get their hands on one. Find out what makes them tick. One phone call is all it’ll take.”

               Dean’s lips curled into a tight, animalistic sneer.

               Ketch grinned. “That’s what I thought.” He released Dean’s wrist. It was already starting to bruise.

               Dean went to lunge again, but Ketch simply side-stepped him. Dean collided with the tree; the bloody stain on the bark that had sent Cas away.

               “Now, Dean. That’s not any way to behave if you want your angel back in one piece.”

               “I’m going to kill you.”

               Ketch clicked his tongue. “Let’s go hunt a ghoul, then.”

.

.

.

               “Your new best friends have Cas.”

               “What?”

               “Ketch pulled some freaky hoodoo shit and blasted Cas to one of their hideouts.”

               “Are you sure?”

               “ _Are you sure?_ ” Dean mocked in a high pitched voice. “It happened right in front of me! Pretty damn sure, Sam!”

               “Sorry, sorry. Oh my god. What are we going to do?”

               “I’m going to do some stupid ghoul hunt with this dick, and then I’m gonna gut Cas’s location out of him.”

               He could envision Sam’s contemplative face on the other end of the phone.

               “What?”

               “I’m going talk to Mick, see what he knows.”

               “No.”

               “No?”

               “Sam, Ketch is threatening Cas. He says---he says they’ve got guys that might wanna experiment on him or some shit.”

               “Holy—”

               “Yeah. So, don’t do anything to piss them off. Not yet, at least. I’ve got no choice but to go along.”

               Sam swallowed. “We’re almost done with this case. We think we know where the shifter’s gonna strike tonight. I’ll meet up with you in the morning, and we’ll kick his ass.”

               Dean chuckled. “Oh, I cannot wait.”

               “Stay safe.”

               “You too.”

               Dean ended the call. Outside his window, Ketch was readying his weapons, balancing on his bike. He got out of the car, making no effort to conceal the scowl on his face.

               “Cheer up, chap,” Ketch said. He hand a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. “Nothing gets the adrenaline pumping quite like shooting off a monster’s head, eh?”

               Dean was about to make a nasty retort—something along the lines of, _Maybe I oughta shoot off your head_ , but he bit his lip and held it back. Still, he let his mind churn up beautiful images of such a scenario--and ones of Dean literally popping a cap up the guy’s ass.

               “Let’s just get this finished.” Dean walked to the trunk. He opened it and pulled out his own shotgun and his silver pistol. He loaded the magazine and slide it in with practiced moves. He flicked the safety off the pistol and listened as the chamber spun and snapped into place. He slammed the trunk shut.

               “Okay,” he said. “Where is this ghoul of yours?” The graveyard was empty, but well-kept. It had been recently mowed, and still had that freshly cut smell. Dean couldn’t see any of the telltale signs of a ghoul. They liked to dig underground, but everything appeared in order.

               “Well, that’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it?” Ketch said with a cheeky grin. “Come along.”

               Dean rolled his eyes, but he had no choice but to comply.

.

.

.

               The hunt took two days. The ghoul ended up being the groundskeeper. He had been recently hired, but a bit too eager, and not knowledgeable enough to stay off the radar. Sam had figured that out, after he met up with the two of them, glaring daggers at Ketch the entire time. Dean was the one to fire the headshot, killing the creature.

               “Okay,” Dean said, after it was done, wiping the blood of his face. “We did your stupid hunt. Now give us Cas back.”

               Ketch just kept smiling.

               “You son of a bitch.” Dean rammed Ketch into the wall, curling his fingers in Ketch’s collar, but Ketch still smiled.

               Sam watched from behind, holding the gun steady.

               “We had a deal!” Dean snarled, free hand aching to punch him in the face.

               Ketch kept on smiling. His eyes crinkled in delight. “Did we?” he said, in a sing-song voice. “I don’t recall shaking hands on it.”

               “Where is he?”

               “You’ll never find out with that attitude.”

               “Dean,” Sam said, warningly. “Let him go.”

               Dean clenched his teeth together so hard they ached. Reluctantly, he uncurled his fingers from Ketch’s collar, but he didn’t step back. Ketch rolled his eyes and dusted off his shirt.

               “You think this is a game?” Dean snapped.

               “I think I finally have an upper hand against you, and it’s not one I’m going to give away so easily. Listening closely, Winchester, and for once in your pathetic life, try using that muscle between your ears. If it tingles, you know it’s working.”

               Dean snarled.

               Ignoring him, Ketch continued, “Right now the angel remains unharmed. No one has access to it, and if anyone so much as touches it, well. . . we have ways of dealing with insubordinates. But,” Ketch popped his lips, “it will only remain that way so long as you two behave yourselves. One toe out of line and I’ll put the order in for the scientists to do as they please.”

               “I’m going to kill you,” Dean whispered, voice raw. Ketch had a twinkle in his eye.

               “Why are you doing this?” Sam asked. “We’ve been working hunts with you. We haven’t done anything to you.”

               “You and your brother are a li-a-bil-i-ty,” Ketch said, stressing each syllable. “You say you haven’t done anything to us? Well, need I remind you about the numerous times you two idiots have almost destroyed the planet? Not even a year ago, the bloody sun was dying! Do you know what we had to do to delete any paper trial of that incident? NASA, the EU, UN, FBI, Area 51—dozens of other organizations had to be infiltrated and all documentation destroyed. If this is how we can keep you in line, the Old Men are all for it.”

               “By holding Cas hostage?” Dean snapped.

               Ketch rolled his eyes. “Oh, for pity’s sake, you bloody twat. I don’t understand what you’re so hung up on. It’s just one angel. And a broken one at that.”

               Dean punched Ketch so hard his hand ached, felt like it was on fire. Dean hissed in pain, held his hand to his chest. Blood pooled down Ketch’s nose. He spat onto the ground, staining the grass. Dean’s stomach felt like lead. Ketch chortled.

               “Whew,” he said, wiping his face on his sleeve. “I’ll let that one slide. Just this once. You’ve got spunk, Dean, I have to give you that. Can’t say the same about some of my colleagues. Completely daft, the lot of them. Utter killjoys.” Ketch stepped forward. “But if you do anything like that again, I will put the order in. Are we clear?”

               Dean’s heart was hammering in his chest. He swallowed. “Crystal,” he said. Ketch grinned toothily.

               “Great.” He winked. “Now, let’s get going on another hunt, shall we? America’s a large place. Monsters lurking in every corner.”

               Dean looked over his shoulder back at Sam. He could see the rage in Sam’s face, the clench of his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders—Sam was always better at concealing his fury than Dean, but Dean knew Sam like the back of his hand. He saw it.

               And he couldn’t wait to unleash it on that smarmy bastard. Sam had the height, and the strength, but he hid it well under a demeanor of sensitivity and compassion—and lured people into thinking he wasn’t dangerous. It was almost like Stockholm Syndrome.

               Sam forced a disgusted smile. His nose crinkled upwards, and he showed just the tiniest flash of teeth. “Where to, boss?”

.

.

.

               When Castiel opened his eyes, he was in a dark, small room. His wings hurt, and his body was bruised. The air was cold. He forced himself into a sitting position, wincing, barely able to hold back a hiss of pain. His head throbbed. He blinked, eyes slowly adjusting, but there was nothing else in the room besides him.

               “Dean?” His thoughts were muddied; he struggled to recall what had happened. He and Dean had driven to see Arthur Ketch. Dean and Ketch got into an argument. . .

               Castiel pushed himself to his feet. He paced around the room. It was smaller than his room back at the bunker; at least half the size. The walls were gray stone. Castiel put his hand on one wall in an attempt to discern any information he could: age, building material, his location. But he found nothing. Castiel furrowed his brow in confusion. There was something blocking his grace.

               “Hello?”

               There was a heavy, steel door. Castiel touched the handle and was burned. His hand yanked back in surprise and pain and he looked down at his skin in horror—it was already starting to redden and blister. Cautiously, Castiel brushed his fingertips against the door, just barely making contact. It burned again. There was something on the other side of the door—a sigil, probably, blocking his grace, keeping him trapped in here.

               Castiel swallowed. He stepped back from the door and walked to the far wall. He slid down the wall, back braced against the stone, and crossed his legs. He would find a way out. He just had to think. Castiel inhaled and closed his eyes and began to meditate.

.

.

.

               “Well, boys, I’ve gotta get back to HQ. Business matters. Mick will be meeting with you at the next hunt.”

               Dean growled at Ketch and pulled the ice pack off his face. He shot to his feet. “You son of a bitch,” he snarled. Sam grabbed at his elbow, but Dean ripped out of Sam’s grip. “You’re gonna run away and hide, huh? Instead of doing what you said you would?”

               Ketch sighed and eyed Dean up and down. “Dean, sweetheart, put that ice pack back on. That eye is unsightly.”

               “I’ll show you unsightly—”

               “Uh uh uh.” Ketch clicked his tongue. “Do I need to make that call?”

               Dean clenched his teeth together so hard his jaw ached. His eye throbbed and his split lip stung. He reluctantly put the ice pack back on, hissing at the contact.

               “Ketch--,” Sam began, but he stopped as Ketch glared at him.

               “What? Come on, out with boy. What do you have to say that hasn’t been said ten times before?”           

               Sam swallowed and closed his mouth.

               “That’s what I thought.” Ketch zipped up his duffel bag and swung it over his shoulder. “Mick will meet you at the Grand Plaza hotel in Oklahoma City for your next assignment. Hop to it, gentlemen. The sooner you get there the better.”

               With that, Ketch left the motel room, the door slamming behind him.

               “I’m going to rip his stomach out through his nose,” Dean growled, every muscle in his body pulled taut. He couldn’t stop imagining what might be happening to Cas right now. He didn’t believe Ketch that Cas wasn’t hurt. The bastard already proved he was a liar. It was like ants were under Dean’s skin every time he thought about it. He tried praying, but he wasn’t sure if Cas could even hear him; and Cas hadn’t dreamwalked him or Sam at all. They had no way to communicate.

               “I’ll hold him down,” Sam said with a sigh, sitting down on the spare bed. The springs creaked under his weight. Sam rubbed his face with his hands. “We can’t keep doing this. Doing hunts for them while they keep Cas hostage.”

               “If we don’t they’ll hurt him.” Probably worse than they already had. Cas could hold his own in a fight, but Dean knew the Men of Letters had all sorts of fancy gadgets—several specialized for angels alone—that Cas had never come across before. Not to mention, who knew what Cas knew? Were they bargaining Dean and Sam’s safety for Cas’s cooperation? Dean hoped that even if that was the case, Cas wouldn’t follow through. Neither he nor Sam were afraid of these jerkoffs; but deep in his heart he knew Cas would never do anything to purposefully endanger them. He’d take a hit to spare them.

               Dean bit down on his lip hard and it hurt. It started to bleed again. He wiped at it with his free hand.

               “We’ll figure it out, Dean. There’s gotta be something we can do. I mean, what about Mom? You heard from her?”

               Dean shook his head. “No. Last I did was a few days ago. She was running a hunt with another one of those shmucks out in Louisiana or something.” He still was pissed at her for everything that went down at Ramiel’s hut. And the way she just walked out— _again_.

               “Okay.” Sam licked his lips. “We’ll do the hunt with Mick, and then figure out things from there. We’ll get him back.” Sam stood up and walked passed Dean, patting his shoulder. Dean sat, lost in his thoughts, mulling over everything.

               The idea came to him.

.

.

.

               Castiel wasn’t sure how long he had been left alone when the door finally opened. He cracked open his eyes slowly. The small sliver of light that fell through was blinding. A man in a white lab coat entered. He smelled like latex and peroxide. His feet were covered in blue, sanitary covers and did not make a sound against the stone ground. The door quickly shut behind him.

               “Hello there,” he said.

               Castiel remained silent. The man grinned.

               “I have some questions I’d like answered, if you would be so kind.”

               Castiel glared at him. The man pulled out a voice recorder. He fiddled with the dials on it for a while, then placed it on the ground in front of Castiel. Castiel tried to set it on fire, but nothing happened. His grace was still blocked, and he made a frustrated sound at the back of his throat.

               “How old are you?”

               _I don’t know_ , Castiel thought to himself. Angels didn’t keep track of age like humans did; it meant nothing to them, and all Castiel really knew as an answer to such a question was that he was really old. He kept quiet.

               “Do you speak English?”

               He spoke every language; even the ones that had gone long extinct.

               “What is your name?”

               Castiel recalled once, after he and Dean finished watching one of Dean’s favorite movies, a conversation.

               _Look, if you ever get nabbed by the cops, don’t say a damn word, okay? Zip it. Keep quiet. Sam and I will get you if it ever happens, but in the meantime, don’t say anything that’ll incriminate yourself, or make you sound batshit. Got it?_

_I got it,_ Castiel had replied reluctantly.

               The British Men of Letters were not policemen, but Castiel figured Dean’s rule applied here as well. The men in the lab coat was getting visibly frustrated. His body temperature was rising.

               “Look,” he snapped, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Don’t make this so hard on yourself, halo. Just answer the damn question—got it?”

               When Castiel again stayed quiet, the man groaned. He pulled something out of his pocket—something small, indiscreet. Castiel couldn’t get a good look at what it was. The man came closer. A flash of silver gleamed from his fist.

               Castiel got to his feet. He was taller than the man, and even without access to his grace, Castiel could fight. But then the man mumbled something, low, guttural, in an old language Castiel hadn’t heard in years. His spine was consumed in agony, like fire was in his blood. He fell to his knees, unable to move. All his muscles were locked up like steel.

               The man crouched near him. There was a sharp pinch in his neck. Castiel saw it, finally—a needle, pulling out blood.

               “There we go,” the man said. He took the needle out and stood back up. “Guess we’re going to do this the hard way. That’s fine. We have lots of work to do with you, halo.”

               The man walked away silently. Castiel blinked, trying to move his muscles, anything, but nothing happened. It hurt too much. The door opened and slammed shut.

.

.

.

               Dean couldn’t decide who he hated worse: Ketch or Mick. Both were insufferable in their own way, but where Ketch was a complete douchebag, Mick was just—annoying. A frickin’ know-it-all, worse than Sam when he was in high school.

               “Researchers believe we’ve got a wraith hereabouts. Victims were found with what appeared to be a knife wound through their chests, but tox screens report an unidentifiable substance.”

               “Any connection between the vics?” Sam asked. Dean stood just a few feet away, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

               “None so far. But in this city, it could be anything, really. I’ve arranged to talk to local authorities and the medical examiner. Hopefully that’ll give us our lead.”

               Dean grinned sardonically. “Here. How ‘bout Sam goes and talks to the doc, and you and I go see the sheriff?”

               Mick looked up from his tablet and stared at Dean quizzically. “Why?”

               “Well, it’ll save us some time. Not really something we can waste. We’re on a clock.” He looked to Sam. Sam swallowed, but nodded.

               “Yeah. Dean’s right. There’s been three murders this week. If we want to stop that number from going up, we need to get to work.”

               “Sam’s better at schmoozing the doctors anyway. Besides, we all three go see the sheriff, that’ll just raise suspicion on us. Which, you know, is the opposite of what we want to do.”

               “Okay,” Mick said, clearly unsure. “Well, I guess that’s what we’ll do.”

               “Great.” Dean stepped forward and patted Mick’s shoulder. “Let’s get going then, partner.”

.

.

.

               Time used to not matter to Castiel. It was unimportant. Days went by unnoticed. Years went on and on, and he stayed the same, even if the people didn’t, nor the earth. He saw mountains rise from the plates of the planet, saw the ground erode into canyons. A human life was but a blink compared to an angel’s life.

               But trapped in that dark room, with no sunlight, without contact, Castiel became very conscious of time. How long had he been trapped? Without his grace, he had no way to tell. His neck was still sore from where the man in the lab coat hurt him. Castiel had no idea what they would do with his blood. What they might even be able to do.

               The door eventually opened again, and the same man re-appeared. He was smiling. It unnerved Castiel. There was something in his hand—a vial, of something Castiel couldn’t identify.

               “Are you going to cooperate this time, halo?”

               Castiel glared. If he had access to his grace, this man would be cowering in fear.

               “No?” He sighed. “Okay. I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way then.” He wiggled the vial in front of Castiel. In the dark, he couldn’t see the color. All he could tell was that it was thick, viscous. “Know what this is?” He clicked his tongue. “Your blood has some. . . unique properties to say the least. Textbook perfect on all counts. It’s too perfect.” He stepped closer. “Of course, there’s a bit more. My colleagues did find some elements not found in human blood. Something unidentifiable, but useful, nonetheless. A little bit of reverse-engineering and wa-la! So, I’m going to ask you one last time. Will you, or will you not, cooperate?”

               Castiel did not look away from the man. He had been tortured at Heaven’s hands. By his own brothers. By Lucifer. And he did not break. Remained intact, unshattered. The Men of Letters had proved themselves to be creative and ingenious with their technologies, but Castiel would not be cowed by them. There were other angels out there that could be harmed if he gave out information. Plus, Sam and Dean.

               He hoped they were okay.

               The man exhaled deeply. “Okay. Be that way. But remember, you could’ve prevented this.”

               He uncapped the vial. He threw it towards Castiel, spilling all over his lap. Castiel stared at it curiously.

               And then it began to burn.

               Worse than the door. Worse than the coffee burns he suffered when he was human.

               It was as bad as the hellfire. It was on his back. Digging down deep under his skin, to his bones. His clothes were too hot, sticking to his skin.

               Then there was the shifting. In his shoulder blades, the bones moved, cracked. He couldn’t hold back the scream. His wings pushed through the skin, ripped through his clothing. Castiel bent forward, forehead pressed against the concrete, nails scraping at the ground until they bled.

               And then it stopped. His back was carrying the extra weight of physical wings, and they strained his shoulders. He panted, sweat collecting on his brow.

               “Fascinating,” the man said. His hand reached forward, fingertips barely brushing against Castiel’s wingtips. Castiel snapped his wing to the side, knocking the man backwards, hard onto the concrete. Castiel’s wings shivered. And they hurt. He craned his neck back to look at them. They were nearly bare, feathers black, thin and brittle around the bone and atrophied muscle. Shame curdled in Castiel’s gut. These were not the wings of an angel.

               “You’re going to regret that,” the man said, holding a fist to his bloodied nose. “Just you wait.” He pushed himself up to his feet, knees wobbling. His voice betrayed him though, just a small waver of the confidence he’d been exuding this entire time. Castiel met his gaze, and forced all of his angelic training into that stare. Never back down. The man broke eye contact first, stumbling out the door.

               Castiel relax marginally, gritting his teeth. He’d gotten used to the constant ache in his wings, but having them manifested in such a way changed how they felt. They were sensitive to the cold air—goosebumps actually rose on the skin underneath the thin coverage of feathers. And they hurt. The pain of old wounds that never truly went away, just became a reality of living, but now it was worse. Now, it hurt as much as it had when the injury was first sustained. Castiel swallowed and laid down, flat on his stomach.

               Sam and Dean would be for him soon. He just had to wait.

               And he was very good at waiting.

.

.

.

               The wraith was killed, but Dean’s wrath was still hot in his veins, making his skin itch.

               Mick was busy wiping the bit of splattered blood of his forehead with a handkerchief, grinning. “That was exciting,” he said, panting. “You boys—I must say, I wasn’t sure of your tactics at first, but you might be onto something.”

               “Well,” Sam said, smiling sardonically, “we’ve only be doing this for, you know, our entire lives.”

               Mick was looking at Sam. Not at Dean. The crowbar was still in Dean’s hand, heavy, slightly bent from where he’d uselessly smashed it against the wraith’s head.

               “Fair point,” Mick said. “Not how we do things back in the UK, though. When you meet the Old Men, you’ll have to exchange some notes.”

               “Sure,” Sam said.

               Dean slowly snuck up behind Mick. He didn’t hesitate. He hit Mick from behind, hard; the sound made Dean’s teeth ache inside his skull. Mick dropped to the ground in a shapeless lump.

               He waited for Sam to say something, or at least shake his head in disapproval, but when he met his brother’s eyes, there was no such thing. Instead, he saw understanding. Maybe even a little bit of amusement.

               Dean threw the crowbar. It clattered on the ground. “Let’s get moving,” he said, bending down. He grabbed Mick’s ankles, while Sam went for the shoulders. “He might not be out for long.”

               “We don’t need long,” Sam said. “Just long enough.”

.

.

.

               Mick stayed out long enough for them to get back to the motel. Dean began to worry he had actually hit Mick too hard, but then he began to stir, and Dean wasn’t so worried anymore.

               Mick was tied to an uncomfortable hotel chair. Dean’s duffel bag was open on the bed, weapons bursting out, and he played with the angel blade, swimming it through his fingers.

               “Wake up,” Dean snapped, slapping Mick on the face. Mick groaned, eyes cracking open.

               “What?”

               “Hey,” Dean said, grinning darkly. Sam watched quietly from across the room. “How’re you feeling?”

               “What’s happening?” Mick mumbled. “Gah, my head—”

               “Is the least of your worries, if you don’t start talking.”

               Mick swallowed. His eyes were unfocused. “Dean?”

               Dean knelt down so he was eye-level with Mick. “Where’s Castiel?”

               “The angel? Why the hell would I know where your bloody angel is?”

               Dean grabbed Mick by the back of the hair, nails digging into his sore scalp. He screamed.

               “You bloody—”

               “Scream all you want,” Dean said. “This side of the motel is totally empty except for us. Where’s Castiel?” Dean brought the angel blade into Mick’s line of sight.

               Mick paled. “I don’t know, I don’t know anything!”

               “Dean,” Sam said. “He’s telling the truth.”

               Dean realized that too. “No worries,” he said, without looking back at Sam. “But I’ve got other plans.”

               He reached into Mick’s pants pocket—ignoring his cry of distress—and fished out Mick’s cellphone.

               “Password?” he asked.

               “Like I’d tell you now,” Mick said, wincing. Dean stared at it; thought about everything he already knew about the British Men of Letters.

               They were incompetent buffoons, and how they had managed to survive this long had to be just one of the sad coincidences of the world. Dean tried his guess.

               “Password?” He looked at Mick incredulously. “Your top secret government issued phone’s password is password?”

               Mick clenched his jaw.

               Dean looked back at Sam. Sam shook his head in disappointment. Dean laughed. He opened up the contacts list and found Ketch’s number right at the top. Dean put it on speaker, and the dial tone filled the room.

               “What?” Ketch snapped.

               “Top of the morning to ya,” Dean said.

               There was a dramatic sigh. “That’s the Irish, you twat.”

               “That’s how much I care about you bastards.”

               “Ketch—” Mick began to say, but Dean stomped on his foot.

               “What’s going on?” Ketch asked.

               “I’ll tell you what’s going on,” Dean said, keeping up a fake cheer. “You’re going to give Cas back, or else I’m going to send Mick back to you in ribbons.”

               “Are you threatening me?”

               “You threatened me first.”

               “Ketch, don’t listen to them—”

               Dean stomped on Mick’s foot again, harder, twisting.

               Ketch chuckled. “Dean, Dean. What makes you think Mick is worth an angel? He’s done a lot for us, that’s true. . . but he’s just a man, and any man can take his job. An angel, though. Especially one like yours, well. That’s not something that should be so easily returned.”

               Dean paced around Mick’s chair. He knew Sam was watching him, but he couldn’t meet Sam’s eye. He didn’t want to see the look in them. This was a part of him he hoped Sam never had to see.

               “I never said I was going to kill him,” Dean said matter-of-factly. Ketch paused. The static cracked. “You guys know everything about me and Sam right? Then you know what I did in Hell.”

               Dean heard Ketch swallow on the other end.

               “So, Mick,” Dean continued. “You’re an intel guy, right? You know all the passcodes, the deep secrets, locations, names of other people. Right?”

               Mick dutifully kept quiet. Dean grinned, and continued.

               “I don’t have to kill him. In fact, I know all kinds of ways to make it hurt and _not_ kill him. Ways of making you talk. And trust me, Ketch. He will talk. He will break. Everyone does, eventually.”

               Dean brought the angel blade up to Mick’s face. Mick flinched and tried to pull back, but the rope was tight, and he couldn’t move more than inch. Dean pressed the blade against Mick’s cheek, tracing it down enough just to draw a thin slice of blood. Mick’s breath hitched.

               “So, we can do this dance. I can keep Mick, and get all the information inside his little head out. Or,” Dean clicked his tongue. “We make a trade.”

               “Mick for the angel?”

               “Whadda ya know! You can use the space between your ears! It tingles, doesn't it?”

               Ketch growled. Dean was getting giddy off it.

               “Fine, Winchester. You win. I’ll text you the coordinates.”

               Ketch hung up. The dial tone was the sound of victory.

.

.

.

               They set out for Topeka, Kansas right away, the moment Dean got the text message. He manhandled Mick into the backseat.

               “Keep your mouth shut,” he snarled as he moved to the driver’s seat, Sam sliding in beside him. He glanced up in the rearview mirror. Mick was trembling. His face was pale.

               “We got a plan?” Sam asked as Dean started the engine.

               “We get Cas,” Dean said.

               “You think it’s gonna be that easy?”

               “I know I’m not leaving till we’ve got him. So, it doesn’t matter.”

               The drive was quiet, except for the roar of the Impala’s engine. Dean didn’t even bother with the radio. He was entirely focused on the road, and what he was going to do to Ketch once Dean met up with him again. Sam didn’t speak. Mick was too terrified to make much noise at all, except an annoying breathy whine that aggravated Dean’s nerves with each iteration.

               It took a few hours to get there. Once they hit Kansas, Sam put in the specific coordinates Ketch gave them, and they followed the GPS to that direction. It led them down a winding road, cutting deep back through a forest. Eventually it led to a clearing. It looked like a giant hazmat tent, covering an old cabin. Dean slowed the Impala down, coasting closer to the building. He could see security cameras bolted up near the corners of the building.

               Ketch came around one of the corners, scowling, hands deep in his pockets.

               Dean and Sam got out of the car. Dean went to the backseat and opened the door, pulling Mick out by the elbow. Mick yelped. Dean tightened his grip.

               “Where is he?” Dean asked behind gritted teeth. Ketch was snarling.

               “The angel is in a secured room.”

               Dean dug his nails into Mick’s arm. Mick winced and yelped again.

               “Take us to him,” Sam said. “Then we’ll give you Mick.”

               Ketch sighed. He turned around. Dean shared a look with Sam and they followed. The inside of the building was out of a James Bond movie. Computers were along every wall, with one covered by a giant electronic map of the world, with various different colored dots scattered about. People were walking around, holdings books and iPads, but paying them no attention. Dean maneuvered around them, following Ketch down a narrow hallway full of at least a dozen different doors. Sam’s face paled as they walked down, and Dean caught onto Sam’s discomfort. The doors were all labeled. One was just “lab” and mechanical noises came from behind it, but the others were labeled with creature names—vampire, werewolf, ghost, demon—and one at the very end, marked with masking tape, angel. It had sigils spray painted on. Dean only recognized one of them—the one Ketch had used to blast Cas away in the first place. The others were all foreign to him.

               Ketch pulled out a keycard and ran it through the scanner on the side. The tumblers clicked and the door popped open.

               “There,” Ketch said, spreading his arm. “You’ve got the angel.”

               Dean pushed Mick to the ground. He opened the door and entered the dark room, Sam right behind him.

               “Cas?”

               His heart leapt into his throat. Cas was against the far wall, pinned up against it—he had wings, large, black appendages coming out of his body, and he was being held up by two large chains coming from the ceiling. Cas’s feet were above the floor.

               “Cas!”

               Dean and Sam rushed towards him. The light came in from the hallway, just enough for them see what was happening. There were hooks attached to the chains, and they went _through_ Cas’s wings, at the juncture where the wing met his shoulder. Cas’s wings were carrying all of his weight.

               Sam grabbed Cas by the waist and lifted him up, trying to alleviate the strain. Cas clenched his teeth together and groaned. “It’s okay,” Sam said. “I got ya. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

               “Sam?” Cas’s voice was pained, sounding on the verge of tears.

               “Yeah, it’s me. Dean’s here too. It’s gonna be okay.”

               “Son of a bitch,” Dean snapped. He was going to kill Ketch, and everyone else in this building, that took part in this. The hook went all the way through. “We need something to cut the chain.”

               “There’s bolt cutters in the trunk,” Sam said. Cas brought his hands forward and rested them on Sam’s shoulders. “Go get them. And a blanket too.”

               Dean gnawed on his lip and looked at Cas.

               “I got him. Go. We need it to get him out.”

               “I’ll be right back,” Dean said, backing away slowly.

               “Bolt cutters and blanket. Get them, and Dean? Don’t fight anybody. Not yet.”

               Dean met his brother’s eye, and nodded grimly. He raced out the door.

               Sam huffed and turned back to Cas. Cas was dirty, covered in sweat and blood. He was breathing heavily. Sam licked his lip and re-adjusted. He hoped he was doing something to make the pain not as bad.

               “How you doing, Cas?”

               “I’m hanging on.”

               Sam gaped at him, then chuckled nervously. “Really not sure this is the time to be making jokes.”

               Cas swallowed and braced his head against the concrete wall. Sam couldn’t help but look at the wings. They were massive, spreading at least six feet in each direction. The feathers, though matted in blood, were a sleek black; but Sam could see bone, and he had to swallow down his nausea and tear his eyes away.

               “Everything’s going to be fine,” Sam said. Cas tightened his grip on Sam’s shoulders and nodded.

               Dean came back. He had a ratty blanket tossed over his shoulder and the bolt cutters in hand.

               “Okay,” Dean said. “You got him good?”

               “Yeah. Just make it quick.” Dean moved to one side of Cas, and cut the chains as close to Cas’s wings as he could. It made a horrific snap that made Sam’s teeth ache. Cas let out a huffy breath, and Sam had to readjust his grip as Cas fell slightly forward. Dean quickly moved to the other side, and did the same thing. Cas fell forward, but Sam had him, and gently lowered him to the ground on his stomach. The hooks were still embedded in Cas’s back. Now they could better see the damage; pink from muscle was peeking out past the shredded skin; bits of bone visible beneath even that. The skin was practically peeled away from bone.

               “Son of a bitch,” Dean groaned, wiping his forehead. “Cas, you feeling okay?”

               “He’s out,” Sam said, leaning forward. Cas was breathing evenly now, but his eyes were closed. Sam looked at Dean. “It’s for the best right now. Getting him out of here’s gonna hurt. Give me your belt.”

               “What?”

               “Don’t argue,” Sam said, beginning to undo his own belt. “Hand it over.” Dean fumbled, but complied. Sam took Dean’s belt. He took the end of Dean’s belt, looped it through the buckle on his.

               “Help me slip this on him,” Sam said. “Just lift him up. Just a little—don’t move the wings if you can help it.”

               It took careful maneuvering, but Dean slipped an arm underneath Cas’s chest, and lifted him up just enough for Sam to slide the other end of the belt underneath. Dean laid Cas back down, and Sam buckled up the free ends tightly, pinning the wings down. Cas moaned slightly.

               “I know,” Dean said, swallowing. It was awful to see Cas in pain; but he understood what Sam had done now. If they had tried to move Cas, the wings would’ve been sliding down, pulling at the bone—god, they probably would’ve ripped right off. Dean pushed that thought out of his mind. It was bad, but they could fix it. Sam had a plan. “And the blanket?” Dean pulled the ratty thing off his shoulder.

               “Stretcher,” Sam said. “Look at him. He’s not gonna be able to walk. Lay it out.”

               Dean laid the blanket out. He and Sam worked together to move Cas on top of it. They worked slowly and gently, inch by inch. It was awful to see Cas in such pain. Dean was going to knock out each tooth in Ketch’s mouth, and make him eat them.

               They got Cas on top of the blanket. It was a slow, meticulous transition, cautious not to hurt him, to keep his wings still. His ankles hung off. Dean took the corners by Cas’s head, and Sam took the corners by his feet.

               “On three,” Dean directed. “One. . .” He looked at Sam, and Sam nodded. “Three.”

               They lifted Cas up in one swift motion. Cas hissed, but made no other noise. He still seemed to be unconscious. “Okay, good,” Dean said to him anyway. “We’re just gonna get you to the car, okay?

               Cas panted. “Okay,” he whispered softly.

               Dean shared a look with Sam. Sam’s mouth was a grim line. They began walking. Slowly, out the door. They couldn’t avoid jostling Cas, but they tried to keep it to a minimum. Still, it was awful to hear the little breathy noises Cas made. Dean tried not to look at the mangled wings.

               Ketch was waiting outside the door, back braced against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He was scowling. Dean felt his blood pressure spike just looking at the man. His fingers twitched. He wanted to go over and snap the bastard’s neck—

               “Priorities,” Sam said.

               “I know,” Dean said. Ketch would get his due.

               But Cas came first.

               It took them a while to get back to the car, careful as they tried to be. When they got to the Impala, it took some more maneuvering to get Cas in the backseat. They had to put him down for a moment to get the both back doors open.

               “Go around,” Sam said. He slid his arms underneath Cas’s chest and legs, and lifted. Dean pulled on the end of the blanket, dragging Cas towards him. Cas’s face was pinched in pain.

               “Sorry, sorry,” Dean kept saying uselessly. “It’ll be okay soon.”

               The wings  weren’t going to fit all the way in the car. The tips were going to stick out the window. There was nothing they could do. Sam went to the trunk and fiddled with the emergency kit, pulling out an ampoule of valium and a syringe. Dean watched Sam fill it all the way, a lethal human dose. He walked to Cas’s head.

               “Hey, bud,” Sam said. “I got some medicine. It’ll help. Let me see your arm.”

               Dean watched. Cas didn’t hesitate in opening up his arm. There was so much trust in that movement. Sam injected the valium in the crook of Cas’s elbow.

               “There we go,” Sam said, finishing up. “Now, just hold on. We’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

          Dean forced himself to look away and climb into the driver’s seat. He turned the engine on, and turned up the air conditioning, angling the vents back towards Cas. Sam got in.

               Dean drove and he didn’t look back.

.

.

.

               They stopped at the first vacant motel they could find. Dean stayed back with Cas while Sam booked a room.

               As they waited, Dean surveyed the damage. Back at the hideout, Dean had figured the wards on the door had been blocking Cas’s grace. But now that they were far away, the wounds still hadn’t healed. At all.

               “Why aren’t you healing?” Dean asked, trying to swallow down the memory of Ramiel, and the last time Cas hadn’t been able to heal.

               “Disconnected,” Cas mumbled, semi-conscious. Dean felt bad about making him talk; normally, he would’ve told someone in this much pain to rest. But Dean needed to know what was happening to help Cas. “From my grace.”

               “Your wings aren’t attached to your grace?”

               “Not like this.”

               Dean looked back at the mess of blood and feathers on Cas’s back. The wings were basically only hanging on by a few stands of muscle.

               “Needs to touch,” Cas muttered.

               Dean bit his lip. “Okay. Okay. We’ll stitch you up, and your grace will heal up the wings, right? Then you can make them invisible again?”

               Cas nodded.

               Dean sighed and carded his hand through Cas’s hair.

               Sam appeared suddenly, jingling the room keys. “You ready to move him?”

.

.

.

               They moved Cas to the bed. It was difficult to move him carefully, while also remaining discreet. The last thing they needed was for someone to see them.

               But they managed, and the moment Cas was safe inside the room, a weight lifted off Dean’s shoulders. Sam went back to retrieve the first aid kit.  Dean worked on setting up chairs on each side of the bed, and trying to make Cas a bit more comfortable.

               Sam filled up another needle of valium. “This is the last of it,” he said, frowning. “Sorry, Cas.”

               “It’s okay,” Cas mumbled as Sam gave the injection.

               Sam looked over Cas towards Dean. He ran his fingers through Cas’s hair. “This is gonna take a while.”

               “Then we better get started,” Dean said, as he began to thread his needle. A wound this massive would need real sutures; dental floss just wouldn’t cut it. He finished, gave it to Sam, and then threaded the second one.

               They stared at the hooks. Dean’s stomach churned; he thought his face was actually turning green. He rubbed his face. He exhaled. “Okay.” He looked at Sam. Sam’s face was sympathetic.

               “We’re just gonna have to pull them out,” Sam whispered. “And hope he can heal it up later.”

               Dean licked his lips. “I’m sorry, Cas.” Cas blinked drowsily up at him. The drugs were starting to trickle into his eyes.

               Dean wrapped his hand around the hook; Sam grabbed the one next to him. Cas clawed at the sheets. He trembled.

               “You gotta stay still,” Sam said. “We’ll take it out on three, but you need to stay still.”

               “Okay,” Cas mumbled.

               Dean met Sam’s eyes.

               “One. . . three!”

               It wasn’t that simple. The hooks couldn’t come out straight—they were curved, and it took them a few seconds to actually get the hooks out. Cas white-knuckled the sheets and pressed his face into the pillow, shoving screams into them.

               All three of them were panting. Dean almost threw up when he saw how much blood and gore was on the hook. He threw it across the room.

               Sam was talking softly to Cas.

               “Hard part’s over,” Sam said. “Now we’re going to get you stitched up. We’ll wait till you’re ready, okay?”

        Cas swallowed, and nodded. “Ready.”

        “You sure?”

        “Please.”

        They couldn’t ignore that.

               They worked in tandem, with practiced efficiency. Dean kept focused on what Cas had said, working on getting the skin and muscle stitched back to the rest of it, and not so much on the actual wings—those, he actually had no clue how to handle; he just hoped he could do this, and Cas’s grace would kick back in. Even if the giant, bloody holes were distracting and calling for attention, Dean would probably just make the injuries worse.

               Sam and Dean didn’t talk to each other as they worked. They remained focused on their side. Even Cas was unusually still—Dean checked after a few moments of concern, and found Cas was actually asleep. Not fully relaxed, but at least he wasn’t currently hurting. Sam’s valium dose actually did something. Dean huffed slightly, then got back to work. Each stitch he put in, he imagined shooting each and every one of those bastards. Imagined driving back there in the dead of night, and burning the entire operation down. Imagined finding the asshole that strung up Cas in the first place, and doing the same to him. Imagined plowing Ketch down with the Impala, backing over him, and driving forward again.

               The thoughts kept him from going mad. Cas was in bad shape, but he’d be okay. He always was. He’d bounce back. Dean would make sure of that too.

               Dean lost track of time, but by the time he and Sam put the final stitches in, he had sweat on his forehead and his fingers were cramped.

               “There we go,” Dean said, tying the thread off and leaning back. He looked over at the little clock. Several hours had passed.

               Something brushed against Dean’s knee. Cas had reached over and was touching it.

               “That feel okay?” Dean asked.

               “Much,” Cas muttered.

               “Is your grace re-connected or whatever now?”

               Cas nodded.

               “That’s good,” Sam said. He looked exhausted. Dean wondered how bad he looked.

               “Thank you both.”

               “Don’t do that,” Dean said. He covered Cas’s hand with his own. “Don’t thank us. It’s what family does.”

               Dean looked at the wings. It had been many years since he’d seen the massive wing shadows. These physical limbs weren’t near as large as those shadows had been, leaving Dean with many questions. But he couldn’t voice any of them at that moment. Instead, he found himself asking, “Can I touch them?”

               Cas peeled his eyes open. He stared at Dean for what felt like a long while. Then he nodded, slowly.

               Dean reached out tentatively and ran his fingers along the longer feathers. It was like touching water. Despite looking frayed, they were softer than anything Dean had touched before. Dean chuckled nervously. He was aware that Sam was watching him carefully.

               He was going to kill whoever had maimed these. He wouldn’t ever forget the sight of Cas pinned up against the wall like that—like it was Hell.

               Dean swallowed. He forced those bad memories away. This wasn’t about him. This was about Cas.

               He was going to kill the British bastards, and he was going to make it hurt.

               .

               .

               .

               Sam slept in the other bed, but Dean stayed in the chair, determined to watch Cas; make sure his grace really did seem to be working. A few hours in, it did look like the skin was coming back together, and Cas seemed more relaxed, even with the drugs slowly starting to wear off.

               Dean kept staring at the wings. Real, angel wings. He kept gently touching them. It was addicting, being able to run his fingertips along the vanes. In certain lights, there were shimmers of blues and greens and pinks inside the black. Sam snored obnoxiously, but Dean couldn’t even be bothered by that. He was mesmerized by this moment—watching Cas sleep, the wings on his back twitching every now and again, in what Dean assumed was some sort of dream. Dean kept petting the feathers.

               And thinking.

               _I love you_ Cas said a few weeks ago. But Dean had been so busy with Ramiel, trying to find the cure, he didn’t say it back. And then Cas was cured, and Dean still didn’t say it back. Because, how could he? What did he have to offer an angel?

               Watching Cas in that moment, sleeping, feeling safe and content, Dean thought: maybe this was it. He couldn’t give Cas heaven, or angel mojo, or the ability to fly again. But he could give Cas this.

               Maybe this was enough.

              

               Dean feel asleep at some point. He wasn’t aware of nodding off, or anything like that. One moment he was watching Cas still, the next Sam was shaking him awake. Dean grumbled and slapped Sam’s hand.

               “You got a little. . .” Sam motioned at his chin. Dean wiped at a bit of drool. Dean looked at the bed. It was empty.

               “Where’s Cas?”

               “Shower. He looks good. Wings are gone. I checked his back out, and you can’t even tell.”

               “Good,” Dean said, looking to the bathroom door. He could hear the shower now. Steam was curling out under the threshold. Dean was going to miss the wings, though.

               “So, we gonna go after the Brits?” Sam asked.

               “Hell ya,” Dean said, still looking at the door. “Can’t let them get away with this. Shouldn’t have let them get away with what they did to you. Straw that broke the Winchester’s back. Not leave one alive.”

               Sam nodded. “I agree.”

               “Good.” Dean cleared his throat. “Just. . . uh, give me a few minutes.”

               Sam’s eyes slide between Dean and the door. The shower turned off. “You want some privacy?”

               Dean’s face flushed, but Sam just huffed and smiled. “A few minutes,” he said. “I’ll go get some breakfast. You and Cas talk.”

               “We will.”

               “It’s a Christmas miracle.”

               Dean scowled. Sam grabbed the keys to the Impala and walked out with a small wave.

               Dean sat on the edge of the bed nervously picking at a loose thread. Cas came out a few moments later, wearing a pair of Dean’s jeans and an old band t-shirt. He paused when he saw Dean on the bed.

               “Sam gave them to me,” he started, staring down at the faded _Metallica_ shirt.

               “It’s fine,” Dean said. “We’ll stop by and get you some new clothes later.” After Dean shot every one of those bastards.

               “I’d like a new coat.”

               “Let’s find one that not’s ass-ugly.” Dean stood up. The wings were gone. Sam was right. He looked good. He had a healthy glow to his skin. Dean cleared his throat and stepped closer. And closer. And closer.

               And then he took Cas’s face in his hands and pressed their lips together.

               And for just a moment, the world stopped. It was just him and Castiel. Everything else vanished. The Brits, the rocky relationship with Mom, Satan’s baby still in the wind, two more princes of Hell—all vanished.

               For a beautiful moment, it was just him and Cas.

               Nothing else mattered.


End file.
